


knight takes king

by Anonymous



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 06:32:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17198336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Gawain and Mash, and Lancelot, play chess.





	knight takes king

**Author's Note:**

> for @pikki_tm on twitter as part of the fate secret santa exchange, who wanted something with the knights of the round! sorry this is so late ;;

Gawain has been at Chaldea for weeks, now, and has more or less settled into a routine. Breakfast in the morning, combined with a briefing; then he’ll either head out with the Master of Chaldea, if he’s been chosen for that day’s mission, or take advantage of the multitude of Servants here to test his skills against legendary warriors. Sometimes, he’ll wander the base aimlessly; sometimes he’ll settle in the library and read. All in all, it isn’t a bad life. It’s comfortable, he’s blessed with interesting companions, and he has the chance to make a positive difference to humanity.

But there are things which bother him regardless, and chief among them is the mystery of Mash Kyrielight.

Oh, not who she is, or where she came from, or what her qualifications are. But how much of Galahad is left in her after their fusion, and how much there could be. It’s enough to make Lancelot give her a wide berth, certainly, but that doesn’t really say much. Because Lancelot’s always felt his failures too keenly, even before meeting his future self at Chaldea: a Berserker stripped of all reason, driven to madness over his role in Arthur’s downfall, with no trace of the king’s foremost knight left in him.

Regardless, though, there has to be something of Galahad in her, and it makes Gawain curious. So, one evening, he decides to speak to her in the dining hall, in search of an answer – well, if he’s being honest with himself, mostly in search of meeting his old friend again. If it turns out that’s the case, and Galahad resides meaningfully in her, he’ll be overjoyed to be able to spend time together again. And if it turns out he isn’t – well, at least it won’t be the least flattering thing he’s done in her presence. Not by a long shot.

“Lady Mash, I was wondering if I might prevail upon you for a game of chess.”

The Shielder schools genuine surprise off her face at his request. She’s not expecting him to talk to her, and why should she? Despite – or perhaps because of – her fusion with a Knight of the Round Table, she tends to avoid the former denizens of Camelot. Barring Bedivere, but that’s a mess of its own. “It’d be an honour, Sir Gawain. But can I ask what brought this on?”

“Galahad and I used to play together at Camelot. We had an almost even record, although I admit, he pulled ahead with our very last match.”

“Sir Gawain,” she says, “I’m not him. And even if I was, I doubt I’d have inherited his chess skills.”

“Well, perhaps we could play regardless? I haven’t had a match in a long time.”

Mash starts to reply, but Gawain finds himself distracted. There’s a pair of eyes on him, and he can feel it even across the hall, so he turns to meet them. Lancelot looks away just a little too slowly, doesn’t quite manage to mask his interest in Gawain and Mash instead of the conversation happening at his table. It makes something cold and uncomfortable settle behind his lungs.

Gawain had, on his summoning, earnestly been looking forward to his time at Chaldea. He was hoping it could be another chance for him to dedicate himself to a worthy Master, in service of a pure ideal. In service of trying to compensate for his sins, even if he can’t erase them.

But he hadn’t reckoned for the complications that his second – third, hundredth, thousandth – life would bring. The fact he spends more time chafing in the base at Chaldea than out in the field, for one. Or of having to look Bedivere in the eye again, and swallow his envy; of having to look Tristan in the eye, and swallow his hurt. And that’s to say nothing of Mordred, his betrayer first and his brother second, who might have been saved if Gawain had been able to switch those priorities. Or of his time serving the Lion King in the Holy City, a spectre he and his fellow knights discuss as little as possible.

(For an instant, a memory floats to the top of his mind – if, indeed, it’s possible to have a memory of something that never happened. Of a summoning to a high-school building, on another world, painted in shades of blue. Of a summoning to act as the sword of another perfect, ageless boy-king. Of a summoning where he’d been able to do his duty right – or, at least, just a little less wrong.)

But, for the moment, his problem is Lancelot. Lancelot, who excuses himself from the dining hall as soon as Gawain has caught his eye, and strides purposefully off.

“Sir Gawain?” Mash says, a little forcefully; he catches himself, realises he must have been zoning out. “Would it be fine to play after lunch tomorrow? I think there are chess boards in the library.”

“Yes,” he says, “we’ll meet then,” and excuses himself as well.

Gawain frets back and forth, for the rest of the day, about his course of action. He doesn’t see Lancelot, doesn’t see anyone, even through his training exercises and early return to his own room. The Master of Chaldea had quartered the Knights of the Round Table together – all except for Mordred, who posed too obvious a problem. So Lancelot is only a couple of rooms down from his own, and it would be so easy to cross those few metres and speak to him directly. Except for the weight of all their history, which they still haven’t discussed; the albatross of Gawain’s guilt, and the knowledge that even if he were to apologise, it wouldn’t mean anything.

In the end, he ends up leaving a note under Lancelot’s door. There’s no point in signing it. Not when Lancelot recognises his handwriting, and not when it could clearly only be from one person.

Mash and I are to play chess in the library tomorrow, after lunch. Although you didn’t hear it from me.

And it may not be perfect, but it’s something.

*

There’s little talk between Gawain and Mash when they convene the next day. Someone’s even left a chess board out – presumably one of the more scholarly Servants, who usually haunt the room, but are nowhere in sight today.

“Would you prefer to take black or white?” he asks.

Mash’s mouth thins as she decides. “Black, please.”

A defensive, conservative choice. Galahad had always favoured black, too – it suited his nature, his preferred strategies, and the fact that Gawain preferred white – but that isn’t any of his concern right now. He takes his seat on that side of the board, and she follows.

“Ready, Lady Mash?”

Gawain’s admittedly a little rustier than he would like, but it turns out Mash hasn’t inherited any of Galahad’s skills. They play a fairly standard opening, evenly matched, before Gawain starts to pull ahead. Because Mash isn’t bad, but her moves lack Galahad’s unselfconscious genius, his blistering originality, his straightforward purpose. It’s fun enough, but he defeats her with a surprising ease.

She doesn’t seem annoyed, though; merely curious about the factors that led to her loss. That, too, is Galahad all the way down.

“That pincer with your knight and rook,” she says. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“It was something of a signature play of mine.”

“I see… I’ll have to watch out for it. Can we play a rematch?”

Gawain hesitates. He shouldn’t, because it’s not even a difficult question, but he does.

(Because he misses Percival, the only member of the Round Table, besides Galahad, who had posed a challenge. He misses Bors and his incessant table talk, Kay and his brash style, Palamedes and his completely different school of play. He misses Gaheris and Gareth, who he’d taught the game as boys, but who had never managed to surpass him.)

(Because he misses Lancelot, who had been terrible at chess, but his best friend.)

“Actually,” a voice cuts in from behind him, “I was hoping I might be able to play this next game.”

Mash’s face turns sour almost immediately. Gawain doesn’t need to turn around to recognise the intruder, but he does regardless: it’s Lancelot, stepping out from behind a bookshelf, looking immensely sheepish. He seems completely out of place, on just about every level; Lancelot goes to combat much more heavily armoured than the other knights, so here, in his casual clothing, he looks exposed. Vulnerable.

“Sir Gawain,” Mash says. She doesn’t sound angry, because she doesn’t strike him as the type to flare up, but she’s definitely verging on it. “Was this part of your plan?”

“No,” Lancelot says, before Gawain can marshal himself, “he had nothing to do with it. i was merely passing by.”

Lancelot’s always been too honest to lie well; Gawain knows this, because he’s the same way. But she seems to buy it, somehow. Even if her eyes flick suspiciously between them, for far too long, because this is too convenient a meeting to pass for coincidence.

“Alright,” Mash says, “but only because I should play different opponents.”

So they reset the board, Mash taking white instead of black, and Gawain pulls up another chair to spectate – well, to mediate, really. But he’d be lying if he wasn’t also interested in seeing his old friend play again.

Lancelot is a far more even match for Mash than Gawain was, so their game lasts longer. And, as it winds on, it’s clear that despite everything – despite her professed incompetence, despite playing as white this time, despite her relationship to her opponent – Mash is having fun. There’s a definite satisfaction creeping into her expression when she makes a good move, and it only grows as she pushes her opponent onto the ropes.

At last, she moves her rook into its final position. “Checkmate, Sir Lancelot.”

“Oh.” Lancelot inspects the board critically, looking for a way out, but comes up with nothing. She has his king well and truly boxed in, caught behind his pawns in his back row. “So it is. Well played, Lady Mash.”

“Thank you for the match.”

“Ah – same to you.”

“I’d like to play against you another time, if that isn’t too disagreeable.”

Gawain’s breath catches slightly in his throat. There’s no knowing how Mash will react to that, when their relationship is still so fraught. It’s a miracle they’ve even gotten this far. But, apparently, it’s the season for miracles, because her eyes aren’t quite as hard as they used to be.

“Maybe not soon,” she says, “but sometime. Right now, though, I need to run. Is it okay if I leave you to pack up?”

“Gladly,” Gawain says.

Mash leaves, off on her business, and the library falls silent. Gawain neatens up Mash’s white pieces, while Lancelot orders his own black side. It doesn’t take long, though, and the pair of them are left with an uncomfortable space between them, all the words they haven’t said clogging the air. Once again, he catches Lancelot looking, feels those eyes searing clean through him – but this time his old friend, his biggest failure, speaks.

“Perhaps we could play sometime as well, Sir Gawain.”

His first instinct is to make up some excuse; anything to worm his way out of this difficult situation. But he’s a bad liar, and it would be impolite, and he can respect the effort it took to ask. And, when it comes down to it, he still misses Lancelot more than almost anyone. Enough to take a chance in turn.

“I would like that.”


End file.
